The Girl With No Name

by Diney Costeloe

  ‘Look, what’s that?’

  They went over to investigate and discovered them, two bodies, a man lying, wide-eyed and staring, with his arm wrapped round an unmoving child.

  Mark knelt down beside them. He could see that the man was dead, but the child lay face down, inert, seemingly not breathing.

  Holding his own breath he reached forward and pressed his fingers to the child’s neck. ‘Pulse!’ he cried. ‘Faint pulse.’ He looked up at Andy. ‘Get an ambulance, Andy. I’ll stay here with her. We might save this one.’

  ‘On my way!’ Andy raced off down the road to the nearby wardens’ post to summon an ambulance.

  Mark sat down on the pavement and reached out to hold the child’s cold hand. ‘Hang on tight, brave girl,’ he murmured. ‘Help’s coming. I promise help’s coming. Just hold on.’

  There was no reaction from the child and he felt again for the pulse. It was still there, but faint, no more than a flutter. Mark knew that help would come, but he had no idea when. After such a raid the ambulance service would be stretched to breaking point. As he sat there, there was a rumble and crash behind him and, spinning round, he saw the remains of the office building disintegrate in a boiling cloud of dust, leaving a gap like a broken tooth in the row of buildings that lined the street. He tried to shield the child from the worst of the dust with his body, but he dared not move her. Suppose she had spinal injuries that he could make more serious? For the next half-hour he looked continually for some sign that help was coming. Surely Andy had got back to the post and phoned in the news of the casualty. Of course he had, it was simply that there were so many calls on the ambulance service they hadn’t got to him and his little girl yet. The dead man lay beside them and, unnerved by his staring eyes, Mark leaned over and closed them. He had been trained as a warden since he’d volunteered in October 1939, but he’d never yet had to deal with an actual dead body, indeed, he’d never seen anyone dead before. Mark was only twenty-three, but his asthma had, so far, kept him out of the services. The continuing dust combined with the smoke from more distant fires combined to make breathing difficult for him and he was coughing and fighting for breath when the ambulance, in the form of an adapted taxi, finally arrived. Two ambulancemen jumped out. One look told them not to bother with the man still lying with his arm across the girl.

  ‘What we got here, mate?’ one asked Mark.

  ‘The child’s still alive, but I don’t know how bad. She was partly shielded by this bloke, I think. They must have been caught out in the open when the bomb fell on that.’ He jerked his thumb at the ruined offices down the street.

  ‘Identity?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ answered Mark, ‘haven’t dared move her in case of doing more damage.’

  ‘Good, let’s have a look.’ The man knelt down beside her and gently felt for the pulse, then very carefully he began to examine her. ‘She’s out cold,’ he said, ‘and this is what’s done the damage.’ He lifted her hair to display a bleeding wound on the side of her head. ‘She’s broken her arm, too, probably when she fell.

  ‘Help me turn her, Mike,’ he said to his partner and together they turned her on to her back so that he could continue his examination.

  ‘She’s a mass of bruises,’ he said. ‘If the blast killed her dad, she’s lucky to be alive. He probably saved her life.’

  ‘Reckon he’s her dad?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Seems likely. See if he’s got any identity docs.’

  Mark turned to the dead man and gingerly turned him over, slipping a hand into his jacket pocket. Inside was his national identity card naming him as Peter Smith aged fifty from Harrogate in Yorkshire.

  ‘He was a long way from home, poor bugger,’ remarked Mike. ‘Wrong day to visit London, eh, Jack.’

  ‘Any identity docs on the kid?’ Jack asked.

  Mike looked in the pocket of Lisa’s dress but all it contained was a photograph.

  ‘No, nothing. Typical kid going out without her identity card.’

  ‘Well, let’s get her to the hospital,’ said Jack. ‘They can do a thorough check and patch her up there.’ He removed her gas mask, which was still looped round her neck. He reached back into the taxi and grabbed a label on which he wrote ? Smith from Harrogate before he tied it to her ankle. They hauled a stretcher out of the converted back of the taxi and, gently lifting her on to it, slid it back inside.

  ‘What about Mr Smith?’ Mark asked, looking down at the dead man still on the pavement.

  ‘We got to deal with the living first, mate,’ the ambulance driver told him. ‘Report his whereabouts and name back at the wardens’ post and he’ll get picked up.’ He gave a brief wave of his hand and the taxi disappeared, taking its casualty to hospital.

  Mark stood looking down at Peter Smith. It didn’t seem right simply to walk away and leave him, but the ambulance driver was right, it was the living that needed his help now. He bent down and straightened the man out, so that he lay as if asleep.

  ‘You did your best, mate,’ he said. ‘At least you saved your little girl.’ He bowed his head for a moment and then set off, jogging back to the wardens’ post to report on what they’d found so far and perhaps continue his rounds with Andy. Surely there must be vital work for them to do.

  It was beginning to get dark but the sky glowed an orange arc above him. So many fires, he thought as he ran back. So much destruction. The firefighters must be flat out. As soon as he reached the post he logged in the body of Peter Smith, registering name and position, and then the chief warden dispatched him with Andy to search another sector. They had only been out a quarter of an hour when the sirens started wailing again.

  ‘Christ!’ exclaimed Andy. ‘Are the fuckers back already?’

  They were, and the two wardens began their now familiar routine, shepherding those who had returned to the streets back to the shelters and checking that there was no one who needed assistance to get there. They watched for lights showing, but as Mark said, ‘Pointless really, the whole bloody town’s a bonfire.’

  By the early hours of the morning much of the city of London was aflame and many buildings, large and small, had been destroyed or damaged. The building that had sheltered Peter Smith had been torched by an incendiary, the heat so intense that when the firemen finally put out the blaze there was nothing left to find. Only Mark Davenham’s record of Peter Smith’s resting place survived to say that he’d ever been there.

  The child, however, had made it to the hospital just before the second raid had burst upon them. She was carried in through Casualty and a nurse checking the label on her ankle, logged her in as ? Smith, Harrogate.

  Casualty was ordered chaos. Injured and disorientated people had flooded in. The worst cases were dealt with first, the less serious had to wait. The unconscious child was wheeled into a cubicle where she had to wait for a doctor to come and examine her. Her coat was bloodstained and a nurse cut it away to release her broken arm. When a doctor was able to examine her, he was concerned by her head wound and the fact that she hadn’t regained consciousness. Assessing her level of consciousness he shone a pencil torch into her eyes and watched the pupil shrink.

  ‘Still unconscious, but stable,’ he said. ‘Don’t think there’s a bleed, but you can never be quite sure. Clean, stitch and bandage that wound and then regular monitoring. I think it’s just a bad concussion and she’ll come round in her own good time. Keep her in the recovery position for now in case she’s sick when she does.’

  A commotion outside claimed his attention and he headed for the door, saying as he did so, ‘Keep her as quiet as possible and check her every half-hour. Once that arm’s in plaster we’ll get her up to the children’s ward and have her closely monitored for the next twenty-four hours. If there are no complications, we can take further decisions about her then.’

  She was moved into a small side ward where a nurse dealt with the head wound, and there she waited for her arm to be set before she was sent upstairs to the ward.r />
  As darkness fell and the sirens warned of another raid, all the walking patients were hurried down into the hospital basement. Those who could not be moved were protected as far as possible where they lay.

  With the sound of the siren a nurse hurried into the side ward and placed a cradle over the girl which she covered with a mattress, intended to protect her from any flying glass or debris should the hospital take a hit. She took the child’s pulse which continued with a steady beat and then, satisfied that her patient was comfortable she moved on to the next bed where an elderly woman lay, her leg broken when she’d fallen in the rush to get into a shelter. She, too, was unable to be moved to the basement and the nurse took the same precautions, saying as she did so, ‘Don’t you worry now, Mrs...’ she glanced at the name card on the bed, ‘Mrs Dean. This’ll protect you if necessary. You just lie still and see if you can get some sleep. That’s the best thing for you till we can deal with that leg of yours.’

  ‘Sleep, nurse?’ moaned the old woman. ‘You got to be joking! What, with the pain in me leg and them Huns making that racket out there, a body’d never get to sleep.’

  ‘Well, you just try, anyway,’ smiled the nurse encouragingly. ‘The aspirin the doctor gave you will help with the pain and I’ll be back to see you in a little while.’

  Good as her word Nurse Carlton came back to the ward twenty minutes later to find Mrs Dean snoring gently and the condition of the child unchanged. She looked at the label still tied to the child’s ankle and wondered how they knew her surname but not her Christian name. If the raid hadn’t started, she knew that the doctor would have set the broken arm while the child was still unconscious, sparing her the pain, but with all hell let loose outside and more patients already flooding in, there was no way he could begin that procedure now. She kept the necessary checks on the child and though she still remained unconscious she seemed to rest more easily as the night went on, despite the clamour of the raid outside.

  It was just as the all-clear began to sound that she was summoned back into the side ward by a bell-ringing Mrs Dean. As she came into the room, she realised why. The child in the other bed had regained consciousness and was lying under the protective cradle screaming, with piercing, terrified screams. Nurse Carlton rushed to the bedside and lifted the mattress and the cradle away to reveal the girl, wide-eyed and staring, her mouth open in an almost continuous scream.

  ‘Can’t you shut her up, nurse?’ demanded Mrs Dean. ‘That noise is doing my head in.’

  Nurse Carlton ignored her, giving her full attention to the panicking child. ‘It’s all right, pet, it’s all right,’ she soothed, taking the girl’s hand and stroking it. ‘You’re all right. You’re in hospital. You got caught in a raid, but you’re safe now. You’re safe now.’

  Gradually the girl calmed down and her screams stopped, but her eyes stared wildly about her and her hand gripped the nurse’s in a ferocious grasp. She had stopped screaming but she was muttering something unintelligible. Nurse Carlton leaned forward, trying to catch what she was saying, but she couldn’t understand the words.

  ‘What’s she talking about?’ demanded Mrs Dean. ‘She’s talking German, she is. She a Jerry? Jerries shouldn’t be allowed in here!’

  ‘Of course she’s not a Jerry,’ snapped the nurse, ‘she’s a child and she’s concussed. She was caught out in the raid and has a bad head wound. She’s disorientated. I’m going to get the doctor now.’ She eased her hand from the girl’s grip and left the room. She was soon back with a doctor, who gave the child an injection so that she relaxed and drifted off to sleep again.

  ‘It was a nasty head wound,’ he said. ‘We’ll set the arm now and then send her up to children’s.’

  Half an hour later the still-sedated child was moved on to a trolley ready to go to the children’s ward.

  ‘Children’s says it’s got no beds,’ the porter told the nurse. ‘We got to take her up to Women’s Medical.’ He glanced at the name card still attached to the child’s ankle. ‘Smith?’ he said. ‘What’s her first name?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ replied the nurse. ‘She was brought in off the street but had no identity card. All we know is her name is Smith and she comes from Harrogate.’

  The porter shrugged. ‘Be difficult to find her family after this lot. Where’s Harrow-gate then? Harrow’s where that posh school is, ain’t it?’

  ‘Harrogate,’ said the nurse. ‘It’s a place in Yorkshire.’

  ‘What the hell was the kid doing down here, then?’ wondered the porter. ‘Thought we’d sent all the London kids up there!’

  ‘We don’t know,’ replied the nurse, briskly. ‘Now, can you get her upstairs so she can be looked after?’

  ‘Yeah, all right, I’m going, ain’t I?’ grumbled the man and began pushing the trolley towards the lift.

  It was some time later that the girl surfaced once more. This time there were no panicked screams, she just lay there and looked about her. Nurse Sherwood went to her bedside and took her hand.

  ‘Hallo, love,’ she said. ‘You awake now? That’s good.’ She smiled down at her patient, but the child did not return her smile, simply stared blankly up at her, her face pale under the bandage round her head. Her arm, in its clean white plaster, lay outside the bed covers, but she made no effort to move it.

  Nurse took her pulse and her temperature, both of which were a little high and having noted these on the chart, she said, ‘I’ll go and tell Sister that you’re awake.’

  Back at the ward desk she spoke to Ward Sister Miller. ‘The child is awake now, Sister, but she isn’t responding to me when I speak to her.’

  ‘What do we know about her?’ Sister Miller asked.

  ‘Very little,’ replied the nurse. ‘The notes that came up with her simply said her surname, “Smith”, and that she was from Harrogate. When we undressed her and put her to bed we found a snap of a family, presumably hers, in her skirt pocket and she was wearing a necklace of blue beads, but no other form of identification.’

  ‘So we don’t know her Christian name?’

  ‘No. She did mumble something as we made her comfortable, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. She has a head injury, so she may still be concussed.’

  ‘I’ll call Dr Greaves to come and take a look at her when he can and in the meantime I’ll come over and see her.’

  Once she had spoken to the doctor, Sister Miller went over to the child’s bed and pulling up a chair, sat down beside her.

  ‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘I’m Sister Miller and I’m going to look after you while you’re here in my ward.’

  The girl gave no sign that she’d heard, but continued to stare into space with unfocused eyes.

  ‘I’ve told you my name,’ said the sister. ‘Can you tell me yours?’

  The girl said nothing, just closed her eyes and seemingly slipped back into sleep.

  When the doctor came he examined her again, checking her eyes carefully. ‘Her arm isn’t a problem,’ he said, ‘that was a simple fracture of the radius, but I don’t like the way she’s drifting in and out of consciousness. Keep a close watch on her, check every hour and call me immediately if there’s any deterioration.’

  The nurses kept a strict watch on the child and the next time she woke up, she took a little liquid food and seemed much more aware of her surroundings. Still she didn’t speak and it was only when the sirens yet again gave warning of impending attack did she try to communicate with those about her. Nurse Sherwood was covering her patients with cradles, mattresses and blankets in the now practised attempt to shield them from shattered glass and falling masonry, but when she got to the girl’s bed she met with complete refusal.

  ‘Nein! Nein!’ cried the child, her eyes once again wide with fear. ‘No! No!’

  Surprised at both her vehemence and her use of two languages but delighted she had spoken at all, Nurse Sherwood put down the cradle and despite the continued warning from the siren, sat down beside the bed.
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  ‘Don’t you want me to cover you and keep you safe?’ she asked. Her words were greeted with a vigorous shaking of the head.

  ‘If the hospital is damaged, these,’ she pointed to the cradle and the blankets now piled on the floor, ‘could save you from being cut or bruised.’

  ‘Please, not shut in,’ came the reply. The girl’s voice was shaky, her use of English odd, her accent alien, but there was no doubt that she meant what she was saying as she repeated, ‘Please, not shut in.’

  There was no time to argue, other patients in the ward needed their protection too, so Nurse Sherwood smiled down at the frightened face and said, ‘All right, I’ll leave you as you are.’ With speedy efficiency she covered the other patients where they lay in their beds before going back to Sister Miller to report her conversation with the unknown girl.

  ‘She doesn’t seem afraid of the siren,’ she explained, ‘just of being “shut in” as she calls it. Maybe she’s claustrophobic. What should I do?’

  ‘Have you seen to the other patients, nurse?’

  ‘Yes, they’re all done.’

  ‘Let’s have another go, then.’

  The two nurses walked over to the unprotected bed. The girl was lying with her eyes closed, but as soon as she heard their approach she opened them and was sitting up to protest.

  ‘Please, not shut in!’ she said firmly.

  Sister Miller took her hand. ‘It’s all right, dear, we’re not going to shut you in.’ The girl relaxed visibly and lay back against her pillow.

  The sister sat down beside the bed. Outside, a fierce anti-aircraft bombardment had begun and the now familiar drone of aeroplanes filled the sky, but ignoring these, Sister Miller took the child’s hand and said gently, ‘Can you tell me your name, dear?’

  The girl shook her head, confused, as if she were trying to shake her brain into some sort of order.